


It we us

by Saphirott



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester's Birthday, Feelings, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22453489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphirott/pseuds/Saphirott
Summary: Assuming the new "normality" can be complicated, but nothing will convince them that what they have experienced so far was not real.One shot written for Dean Winchester's birthdayLittle spoilers from the 15x10 episode The heroes journey
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 67





	It we us

**IT WE US**   
**By: Saphirott**

His back is killing him.

Actually, it's a little bit of everything, the head, the arms, the legs that are too constricted..., but that, the back, is what is driving him to open his eyes, to wake up. He sharpens his ear and there's nothing but silence, that kind of silence that somehow evokes calm, tranquility. Tentatively, he opens his eyelids, giving thanks inside for not having to face an excess of light but a soft bluish clarity.

The world takes shape around him, a familiar world. Leather, gasoline and a space that has become too small for him over the years. With a whiny grunt, which he refuses to acknowledge as his own, he makes his best attempt to get into the back seat of the Impala. He takes his hand to the bridge of his nose and massages it carefully. The pain has subsided, but the congestion is still there, dulling his senses.

It's nighttime outside. The sky is clear and full of stars despite being January, the full moon bathes everything you see with silvery reflections. It is beautiful. Lonely. And that's when he realizes something is missing. Dean.

It's not in the car or in sight. Restlessness breaks out in his gut and he frantically spins the seat back and forth trying to get a better view, some sign. The feeling of dizziness makes him wobble a bit and he doesn't have time to put his hand to his face to contain the sneeze that shakes his head and leaves him with the feeling of housing the bells of a hundred churches, all ringing at once.

“Damn cold,” he mumbles, as he wipes his shirt sleeve. “This shit is going to kill me.”

A chuckle breaks the silence of the night.

“Dean?” asks, hesitantly. “Dan?!” repeat, louder, looking at both sides of the Impala.

“Out here,” answers his brother's voice. A hand is raised in front of the window on his right.

There's no urgency in his voice, and nothing to indicate that he has a problem, but that doesn't stop Sam from speeding around the Impala to check it out. His heart slows a bit when he finally sees it, sitting on the floor, with his back against the metal door, his left leg bent and raised and his arm resting on it. No blood, no injuries, at least not in sight.

“Are you all right?,” he asks, just to make sure.

“As well as can be expected, Sammy,” he answers without moving. His tone is tired, but strangely relaxed.

The air is somewhat cold and damp, making Sam adjust his jacket while watching Dean with a little more attention. Another sneeze makes him shake from head to toe. When he recovers, Dean is looking at him, his face cut out in the light, highlighting his lines in a play of light and shadow that he wishes he could somehow capture.

“How about you?”

Sam shrugs his shoulders and wraps himself up back into his jacket. Dean nods his head and snorts with amusement.

“Dude, I thought that stuff Garth's wife gave you worked.”

“Don't mention it,” says Sam squeamishly, holding one hand to his stomach. “I think I'm gonna get an ulcer after that.”

Dean keeps looking at him, eyes bright and lips tight with laughter.

“You were rolling around on the floor like a dying porcupine,” Deam adds.

“Shut up,” warns.

“You were scratching your tongue on the carpet.” Tears were rolling out of the corners of Dean eyes.

“Shut up! You weren't there! It wasn't with the carpet, it was with the shirt sleeve, okay?.” Dean can't hold back his laughter any longer. “It was itchy. At least I didn't have a mouth full of cotton wool like a squirrel.”

“That was a low blow,” replies Dean, suddenly serious. “I had a massive cavity problem.”

“Yeah, whatever you say.” Sam makes no effort to hide the discomfort in his tone. “Atchuuuss!”

And there's the giggle again. And this is when Sam takes notice. The little column of smoke rising from the end of his brother's hand. The smell.

“Are you high?” the palpable disbelief in just three words.

“Not yet, but the night is young.” Dean smiles mischievously and raises his hand, revealing a large, half-consumed joint. “Do you sit with me?”

Dean pats the floor next to him and looks from below at Sam, with soft, squinty eyes.

“Since when did you start smoking? In fact... where the hell did you get it?”

Dean rolls his eyes in annoyance, takes a puff, and throws his head back, thanking the cold door under his hair, closing his eyes before answering.

“Don't act like a mother, Sam. It doesn't suit you. Normal people smoke to cope better with problems. I'm embracing our new _normality_ ,” he says, accompanying the word with a gesture of his fingers. “You were knocked out and I couldn't stand here. I walked to the gas station we passed a few miles ago. I bought the spark plugs and relays I needed, tomorrow morning I'll have Baby back on the road.”

Dean pats the chrome window over his head affectionately, as if he could comfort his baby. Sam watches him carefully, feeling something shrink inside him with the defeat and frustration that, despite the incipient high, his brother's voice shows.

“At the gas station there were these guys,” Dean continues, “you could see them a mile away. You know... I just had to walk up and ask. I didn't think, I just...” There's a guilty smile as he turns his wrist and shows the joint.

Sam nods understandingly. It's all been so weird in the last few hours, it's hard to assume that "normal" is scarier than the supernatural. That their life has changed, that they haven't really "lived" until now, that they have been nothing more than characters in a story. He wants to believe Dean's words, he wants to believe them so badly.

_“You and me? Not everything we did was for Chuck. It we us. The blood, the sweat, the tears... That's ours, man. That's us.”_

Love, trust, loyalty, co-dependence... The home they only find next to each other. No, Dean's right. That can't all be Chuck's doing, that's just theirs. It has to be. It must be.

A chill makes him shiver again.

“Come here...,” Dean gets his attention, gently pulling on his sleeve with an easy smile on his lips. “Sit down next to me.”

He doesn't hesitate this time. He accepts the outstretched hand and drops down next to his brother. Dean puts his arm over his shoulders and forces it to stick closer to him. Sam can't help but sigh, comforted by the shared warmth. Dean smiles and places a quick kiss in his hair before whispering: “Better?”

Sam nods, leaning a little closer, only enjoying the relief of the company. He feels Dean's chest swell in a deep breath, and a second later, the joint appears before his eyes in a silent invitation. Sam lifts his head, looking up at Dean's face, with a clear gesture of disbelief, perhaps a little offended too.

“Come on, Sammy...” Dean raises his eyebrows repeatedly and smiles mischievously. “Embrace normality with me. What do you say?”

Sam shakes his head, but smiles and takes the joint from his brother's fingers, studying it with a scowl.

“I'm saying you're an asshole.”

“Bitch.”

“Whatever...”

Sam brings the joint to his lips and inhales, letting the smoke travel down his throat to his lungs. It burns a little and he can feel how irritation is aroused in a body not used to smoking. Dean is looking at him, he knows, and his pride as a little brother doesn't want to show him that he can't take a puff without coughing.

“Don't look at me like that,” he complains in a slightly strangled voice.

“Like this, how?” False innocence and fun.

“I know what you're waiting for and it's not going to happen,” Sam warns, though he can feel the tears welling up in his eyes.

“No?” Dean asks, staring at him too hard for Sam's opinion.

“Nope.”

“Huhumm.”

Silence. Dean's eyes are still on him. And he's trying, but the itch is too much and he curses Dean and curses himself for giving his big brother another reason to mock. It feels a little like being 12 again.

No matter how hard he tries to squeeze his lips, he can't stop coughing. Dean's laugh breaks the night as he feels the blush spreading across his face and begs for a pat on the back.

“Calm down, little brother. The second time is easier.”

“I hate you...,” responds between slower coughs.

“No, you don't,” whispers Dean against his hair, after pulling him back to his side. “You love me, Sammy. You love me.”

Time passes in a silence that does not need to be filled with words. Honest, true, just them and a starry sky above their heads. The weed and alcohol they soon added to the equation seeps through their system, clouding bitter memories, numbing pain and softening loss. Even if it's only for a few hours, it can be worth it.

Sam looks at the sky from his new position, with his head resting on Dean's legs. At first, the feeling of floating had not been very pleasant, but now, he has found his anchor in the fingers that Dean slips lazily over his head. Another of those childhood conditionings, of fears and nightmares that only his brother could calm. His brother. Dean. No Chuck, that couldn't be Chuck's thing either.

_“Screw you, Chuck!”_

In a display of teenage rebellion, the thought makes him feel better and brings a smile to his lips.

“Everything okay down there?”

After so long of silence, the words surprise him. The tiny wrinkles creep into the corners of Dean's eyes, warm and soft, like his smile.

“Yes, all right.” Sam surprises himself with the sincerity and speed of his response. It's been a long time since…” he hesitates, “we've had a time like this. I don't know, in... calm?”

Dean raises a thoughtful eyebrow and snorts with amusement.

“Well, maybe now Baby will provide us with more nights like this. It's a fifty-three year old car... I'm sure some people wonder how it still runs.”

“Maybe...” Sam answers thoughtfully, which makes him a winner with a little smack on the back of his head.

“Don't listen to him, sweetheart,” says aloud. “This won't happen again, I'll take care of it.”

The silence returns for a while, just as comfortably as before. This time it's Sam who breaks it.

“I was just making a special dinner, you know?” He just says.

“Uh?”

“Dinner...,” he says, starting a drunken giggle. “Fuck, I was going to make you a pie and everything.”

“Why?” asks Dean, totally out of it.

“What do you mean, why, Dean? It's your birthday, man!”

Sam's face turns from fun to exasperation at his brother's surprised and embarrassed gesture.

“I've had a lot on my mind lately, okay?! I'm sorry.” Dean defends himself. Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, what were you making for me?” continue, conciliator.

“Never mind, there's nothing left.”

“Sammy...,” begs Dean, worried about Sam's suddenly annoying tone.

And then Sam starts laughing, loud and deep, an unrestrained laugh that shoots out his dimples and brings tears to his eyes under Dean's astonished gaze.

“Sammy?”

“Gotta admit it,” he manages to say, half-drowned in laughter, “he knows how to pick his moments. It's funny.”

“Who?” asks Dean, lost and half scared.

“Chuck!” he answers, obviously.

“Okay, I think you've _"embraced"_ too much normalcy. Not another puff,” warns a Sam who can't stop laughing.

“Do you think he thought about it? I'm sure he has, damn bastard.” The laughter stops, replaced by a sudden rage. “I'm sure he thought it was brilliant, a great gift, huh? And if it ruins mine in the process, what difference does it make?”

“Sammy, seriously, man.”

“No. I've been making that dinner for a while. Now I got nothing,” he says sulking.

“I don't need anything. I didn't even remember it was my birthday, you know I don't worry about that kind of stuff...

“You don’t," he interrupts, "you don't care about that stuff but I do... I do, Dean. And now...” his voice is shaking. Dean waves his hand in his face with exhaustion, starting to curse the moment he decided it would be a good idea to give Sam a smoke.

“I don't need anything, Sammy. It's enough for me to have you here, for us to be together.”

“No,” he says stubbornly.

“You can give me something tomorrow...”

“Tomorrow is not your birthday...”

“Sam!” he complains. “Damn, my head is starting to hurt,” he mutters as he puts his hand to the bridge of his nose and squeezes.

Sam remains with a scowl and a pout on his lips, like when he was a little boy and his father told him he couldn't go hunting with them and they left him alone in the motel room on duty. The silence returns, but it is brief.

“That's it! I'll give you the weed.”

“Uh?”

“The weed! On me! It's my present.”

Dean looks at it like he's grown three heads.

“We'd better go to sleep,” he says, trying to get up.

“No, no, no, no... No! I insist,” he begs as he rummages through his jacket. “Let me do this.”

Dean rolls his eyes, incredulous, surprised and, deep down, amused.

“You know the cards don't work,” he jokes.

“Do you think I don't have any cash?”

“Do you?.” And that's a serious question, because ever since Charlie gave them those cards, they weren't used to carrying it.

“I picked up before I left,” Sam answers in his own smart way, as he reaches into his wallet, still lying on Dean's lap. Something slips through the leather folds and lands on his chest, a worn-out picture that Dean picks up, before Sam even realizes it's there.

“What's that? It's...,” he starts asking, before he's speechless, getting Sam's attention. The blush goes up the younger's cheeks. “I thought he was lost...,” Dean whispers.

Sam's eyes are filled with guilt at the melancholy of Dean's voice, at the uncertainty floating in the green of his gaze.

“I...” he hesitates, “I took it... That day... I couldn't...” Sam swallows hard. “I'm sorry...,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze.

No need to ask. Both know what day he's talking about and neither of us wants to remember it. Least of all Dean.

“You've had it all these years?,” he asks, while still looking at the image, as if it were evoking every detail.

Sam doesn't answer, the answer is obvious.

“It was also my birthday when I took this picture. I was turning 21”

“Do you remember?”

“How could I not? That camera was the best present I ever got. It still is,” he says with a loving tone. “This is the first picture I took with it, that night, after... You know.”

“Now you feel ashamed?” Sam asks, somewhere between incredulous and funny.

“No... Well, maybe because of who we were then. We were very young, Sammy. Sometimes I wonder if I influenced you, if I shouldn't have been more assertive and forced us to wait longer.”

Sam rolls his eyes, stands on his arm and silences Dean with his lips. A demanding, wet kiss in which Dean lets himself be gently dragged.

“Do you regret it?” Sam asks, separating as little as possible when they break contact.

Dean's eyes wander along his face, up and down, until they are fixed in his mouth again, red and swollen lips, as desirable as an oasis in the desert.

“Never,” he replies, leaning forward and now he is the one who starts the kiss. Sam gasps as Dean grabs a handful of his hair and uses it to hold it firmly in place.

Sam stands upright as they separate and regains his position, sitting on Dean's side, looking at the picture again, now together.

“I ran out of lunch for almost a year so I could buy it for you,” Sam says, with a hint of pride and nostalgia.

“Just with that?”

“Well, and Bobby and Pastor Jim's tips, plus what I got for my birthday and Christmas, and…” Dean looks at him with an eyebrow raised, “a few games of pool.”

There's a nervous smile on his lips, an apology, as if he still expects his brother to scold him for going to the pool game alone with only sixteen.

“That's my boy. I'm impressed,” says Dean appreciatively. “Although, if I had caught you, you would have regretted it.”

Sam snatches the picture from his fingers, smiles and assures: “It was worth it.”

The paper is a bit old and damaged, tangible proof of something that has travelled for years hidden in the folds of a wallet. Held and looked at so many times that the contents are burned into the memory.

There are two young bodies, agile, strong, beautiful in their nakedness. Their faces are not visible. Dean's is hidden behind the camera, shooting at the reflection of both of them in a mirror. Sam's is hidden behind the body of his brother and, for the first time, that night, his lover. Sam can hardly recognise himself now in that lax, satisfied body lying on the mattress, although the image of Dean, kneeling beside him, still gives him the same warmth inside. The same warmth he has felt all his life, as far as he can remember.

The same that he feels now, at his side. That's why he took the photo, so he wouldn't forget.

“Take it,” Sam says, stretching it out to his brother, “I'll give it to you.” A sad smile on his lips.

Dean watches him for a moment, weighing what to do, until he finally takes it, with a certain reverence in his gestures. They both smile, trying to play down a moment that seems to have become too serious.

“You can't give me something that was already mine,” Dean says with a certain smugness.

“No, it wasn't. You've only had it a year, but it's been with me for almost twenty,” Sam replies with a sudden sobriety.

The silence returns as they share looks that speak of many things. Of love and faults, of betrayals, fights and reencounters, of hard days and easy days, of experiences, of life.

“Thank you,” says Dean finally.

“Don't mention it. Happy Birthday to you.”

Dean nods, stands up, and extends a hand to his brother who takes it gratefully. They've been on the floor a long time, and it's cold. Dean pulls some blankets out of the trunk and arranges them in the back seat, a routine he's learned over the years.

In the morning, an incessant clicking sound enters Sam's still-buttered head. When he opens his eyes, he has a lens in front of his face, the one with Dean's camera. The same one he gave him.

“Smile, princess.”

“Uh? Oh, Dean! Really?” He moans, dozing off as he tries to cover his face with his arms.

Dean laughs, and Sam swears he hasn't heard that loud, clear laugh in a long time. He puts his arms down and Dean stands beside him, throwing away the blankets and leaving their naked bodies exposed to the morning sun. The camera's shutter shoots in a burst.

“I kept your picture,” explains Dean. “It's only fair that I give you one in return.”

Sam rolls over his eyes and reaches out for the blanket, doing his best to cover both of them.

“Party pooper,” protests Dean.

“I'm just aware that right now, if we stay like this, the least we'll catch is pneumonia.”

They both laugh for a moment, until Dean kisses him, his gesture suddenly serious.

“I love you,” he says over his lips. “And Chuck has nothing to do with it.”

Sam looks at him for a moment, drinking in the sincerity and firmness that Dean's gaze projects.

“I love you, too.”

It's still early, and Alaska may well wait another hour.

**END**


End file.
